


Aim to Please

by 8sword



Series: Aim to Please [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover Pairings, M/M, Porn Without Plot, Queer Dean Month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2233959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/pseuds/8sword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean stares at his group. They stare back, except for Captain America, who looks at him encouragingly instead of blankly. Which makes Dean shuffle his feet and try not to think of Hell, because shit, he doesn't even feel qualified to stand next to the guy, much less boss him around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aim to Please

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orange_8_hands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_8_hands/gifts).



> All credit and blame goes to oranges8hands, for whom I started this headcanon after we saw a Supernatural/Avengers crossover that evoked the most glorious Steve/Dean feels. We were left bemoaning the dearth of Steve Rogers/Dean Winchester fics. Please, for the love of God, someone write more fics for this ship. PLEASE.
> 
> Also, Jensen Ackles is apparently an inch taller in real life than Chris Evans, but we can all blithely ignore that for the duration of this fic. Pretend the super soldier serum gave him even more height, ssshhh.

The first time Dean meets Captain America, he's still spitting mad that some fucker wearing a purple jumpsuit carjacked his baby.

Finding out said fucker is a member of the Avengers ("big deal," Dean said, while Sam perked up and looked excited) and the carjacking was so they'd be distracted enough for S.H.I.E.L.D. to take them into custody and explain how they needed their help to basically save the world didn't change much.

Dean's still in the middle of shouting threats involving second assholes for bringing his car onto a fucking _helicarrier_ when one of the doors hisses open behind him.

He doesn't bother looking around, just keeps shouting at Eye Patch Guy, ignoring Sam's increasingly louder throat clearings.

When he's finally, finally done, he turns around to see a blonde guy standing there in a blue and silver combat suit that looks like it has to be padded but totally, totally isn't.

"Uh," he says.

Captain America is hiding a smile behind his gloved fist. Behind him, Iron Man's not making near as much of an attempt at courtesy; his laughter is spilling out through the intercom of his suit.

The skinny of it is this: S.H.I.E.L.D.'s got a haunting problem--a big one, like, army-big. They need supernatural expertise to dispatch it. Fury-slash-Eye Patch Guy is willing to _expunge_ the felonies from their records, and after Dean laughs at the way he says expunge, he points out that they don't exactly need that kind of help, since everyone already thinks they're dead after the clusterfuck that went down with Lilith and Henricksen in Colorado.

"Sure they do," says Fury. "For now. How long do you think it'll take me to put you back on the map?"

Dean subsides, grumpily, throwing a look at Sam, who looks just as disgruntled, but just as resigned. On the other side of the huge conference table, the captain's leaning forward, looking back and forth between them as though about to say something to Fury. The red-haired chick next to him catches his eye, though, and with a frustrated look, he sits back in his chair.

"See?" Dean mutters at Sam. "Fucking government. This is why I voted for anarchy."

"You can't vote for anarchy, Dean," Sam says in exasperation.

Dean ignores him in favor of tapping his fingers impatiently on the shiny tabletop and glaring at Fury as an agent in an MIB suit walks into the room and says something to him in an inaudible voice.

Fury stands up. "You." He points at Dean. Then he points at the various superheroes seated around the table, including, but not limited to, the huge armored guy with the hammer bigger than Dean's head. "Educate."

 

The second time Dean sees Captain America is really just an extension of the first, since Sam takes over the whole teaching thing and decides small groups would be the most effective way to go, and Dean gets the Cap, the Norse God, and a guy who can apparently turn into the Hulk. Iron Man is in Sammy's group, which he's pretty sure Sammy engineered on purpose, and Purple Jumpsuit Archer Carjacker Loserface, which he's pretty sure Purple Jumpsuit Archer Carjacker Loserface engineered.

Dean sort of stares at his group, and they stare back, except for Captain America, who looks at him encouragingly instead of blankly. Which makes Dean shuffle his feet and try not to think of Hell, because shit, he doesn't even feel qualified to stand next to the guy, much less boss him around. He's cut people's organs out of their bellies and held them pulsing and dripping in his hand, and Captain America--

 

"Where'd you serve?" the guy asks sometime during the lesson, between salt rounds and devil's traps.

Dean doesn't quite manage a smile.

"Nowhere you've heard of, Cap," he says, and looks away from the frank, assessing blue gaze.

 

"Gonna have to ditch the shield, Captain," he says later. They're all gearing up, loading up with extra rock salt shells, second-checking anti-possession necklaces and tattoos. He flashes a grin. "Not gonna do you any good unless you've got one made of iron."

Stark shouts out a triumphant exclamation in the background. Rogers ignores him, in exasperation, and cocks an amused eyebrow at Dean. "Would be a little heavy, don’t you think?"

"What?" Dean says, and thumps the captain's muscled shoulder with a fist. "Don't think these guns could handle it?"

Sam makes a sound like a wounded animal, hand coming to his face in embarrassment. Rogers just cocks his head, looking puzzled…and amused. Dean hurriedly detaches their gazes, feeling the heat creeping up from beneath his collar, and lower places.

"Anyway," he says, checking the safety on his Colt. "Autobots, roll out!"

Sam and Stark both roll their eyes.

 

It's safe to say the day turns out a lot differently than he planned.

This morning, he rolled out of another mildewy-smelling motel bed thinking of whether to have donuts or a gas station burrito for breakfast. Now, a mere fourteen hours later, he's being pressed up against a helicarrier bulkhead by a super soldier from the 1940s, trading kisses like their tongues are air and they're drowning men.

Steve's leg is between his. Dean tries to pull him in closer by taking handfuls of his suit and fails, nails scraping ineffectively against the reinforced Nomex. Steve seems to get the message anyways, stepping in closer, his hands coming to Dean's thighs to grind him forward against Steve, the movement just enough to bring Dean's heels up from the floor, for him to go to his tiptoes for purchase. He breathes out " _fuck_ " before he's diving into Steve's mouth again, sucking on his tongue, hands scrabbling up from his back to his neck to pull him in, to bring him even closer, his tongue even deeper.

Steve's tongue is slow, languid, as calm as Dean's movements are frantic and fierce, his hands slow and affectionate on Dean's sides now, and Dean finally pulls back in frustration, pupils blown wide and mouth bitten red.

"There's such a thing as _too_ hard to get, you know," he says, breathless.

"I'm not hard," Steve protests as Dean spins them and shoves Steve down onto his bunk.

Dean flashes a sudden grin, one that's pleased at the same time it's predatory. "Sure, big guy," he says, and drops onto his knees.

Steve's hands come up to his head as Dean's mouth closes around his cock, not holding Dean's head but curling in the air above it like he wants to. Then they flutter down to clench in the fabric of Dean's jacket collar instead, white-knuckled but not pulling. Dean groans around the length in his mouth, and Steve's thighs clench, inhumanly disciplined, to keep from thrusting.

Dean glares up at him pointedly, eyes expectant.

Steve shakes his head. Dean makes another frustrated sound in the back of his throat that has Steve's eyes fluttering in ecstasy again.

He pulls off. "I may not be a super soldier, but I can take a little roughing. C'mon."

"Dean--"

"Cap," Dean lowers his head, and just before engulfing Steve in his mouth, says, "Believe me, you can't do any rougher than what I've already had."

There's a challenge in his green eyes, behind the shadows in them, nearly a taunt. Steve pushes forward, and his hands come down to Dean's head, slide down the curves of his skull to cradle it at the back, where the hairs at the nape of his neck stand up from the gentleness of Steve's touch. He keeps his eyes locked onto Dean's wide ones as he sheathes himself slowly in the wet warmth. Runs his thumb wondrously across Dean's Adam's Apple as it bobs in his throat.

A little punch of breath escapes Dean, vibrating around Steve. And that does it, that does it, Steve shakes and trembles, and when it's done, he looks down at Dean, shell-shocked and heavy-lidded, feeling the way same he did after Dr. Erskine's serum, being able to breathe for the first time without a wheeze haunting his lungs, his chest full and clear and realizing that the world had been like this all this time; he'd been missing out on this feeling all this time.

"That was…" He swallows. "Wow."

Dean wipes the corner of his mouth with a fist, sitting back on his heels. He's grinning. "I aim to please."

Steve pulls him up, pulls him in. Dean comes easily, straddling his legs, slinging his arms over Steve's shoulders. Steve turns his head to kiss one bared forearm, then reaches down to unbutton Dean's jeans to reciprocate the favor. He finds, however, a different story when he encounters the cooling dampness inside Dean's jeans: He's already come.

"Oops," Dean says, part sheepish and part wicked and all pleased, and Steve's thumb finds the jut of his hipbone, beneath all the layers of shirts, and strokes it as he pulls him in for a kiss.

 

A few hours later, Steve's lying sprawled out in his bunk, arm slung over his head as he watches Dean prowl around his room. He seems too restless to lie down, his skin unnaturally smooth in the faint white glow of the night lamp from Steve's en suite bathroom as the muscles beneath it shift: from bed to corner to nightstand to bureau and back again. He picks up Steve's Captain America helmet from where it sits on the bureau and turns it over his hands, lifting it to squint through the eye holes.

"Can you even see out of this thing?"

"Why don't you try it on and find out?"

Dean shoots him a look but pulls it on. His eyes look startlingly large surrounded by the dark blue of the helmet, as he blinks at Steve owlishly.

"This peripheral vision is crap. How do you ever see anyone coming with this on?"

Steve taps his ear. "That's what the super hearing's for."

Dean snorts, pulling off the helmet. He places it carefully on the bureau, though, before he crawls back onto the bed, knees knocking into Steve's calves.

Steve studies him thoughtfully as he crawls up him. He smoothes a hand up the inside of Dean's arm, and then he says, "Why don't you try the whole suit on?"

Dean scoffs. But his eyes, big and green, flick to Steve's, like _is he kidding?_ "Really?" he says, his voice carrying just enough sarcasm to preserve his pride.

Steve nods.

Dean is stunned for a minute. Then he climbs back off the bed, much less deliberately seductive now than he was when he crawled back up Steve's body onto it, and lifts the costume from where it's flung across the bureau. His movements are almost reverent.

"I'll just--" He glances at Steve. Doesn't quite jerk his head in the direction of the bathroom.

Steve nods anyway. "Go ahead." He doesn't laugh at the fact that they've been naked in front of and against each other for the past several hours but Dean somehow needs privacy to get dressed, or at least, he tries not to.

Dean emerges almost shyly a few minutes later. "It looks dumb without the shield," he says gruffly, holding the helmet between his hands.

Steve scoots to the edge of the bed, planting his bare feet on the floor. "C'mere." He lifts his hands, and Dean shuffles reluctantly forward in the big heavy boots, hands tightening around the helmet. Steve lifts it from his hands and fits it over his head, gently. Dean stares at him from behind it, gaze somehow defiant, so close Steve sees himself mirrored in his black pupils. He slides his hands down Dean's neck to his chest, the dark fabric stretched across his shoulders. His knees part, a little more, and Dean steps closer between them, the tough fabric of the costume just barely brushing the fine hairs of the skin inside Steve's knees. It feels simultaneously rough and exquisite, like Dean's touch on his cock not so long ago, and Steve's breath catches and tangles.

Dean grins.

Steve makes a face at him. Then he sits forward again, knees scraping the Nomex, to pull the helmet back off Dean's head, and sits back with it in his own hands to study Dean in all his hair-mussed glory, the strong jut of his jaw above the suit's high collar. His hands itch to draw him, and he draws them up Dean's sides, instead, up to the reinforced pectorals of his chest, and then back down, down the firm sloped muscles of his thighs and back, around, to the curve of his ass. He pulls Dean toward him.

Dean puts up a token resistance, planting his feet, but eventually lets himself be pulled forward into it, knees digging into the edge of the bed before he gives up and plants one knee on the mattress between Steve's legs.

"Guess the stars and stripes turn you on, huh?" he pants into open-mouthed kisses, and Steve pulls him closer, grips him tighter. _His_ hands don't have a problem gripping through the Nomex.

Dean groans and shoves him down so hard his back bounces off the bed. Then he straddles his leg, rubbing their groins together, the friction of the bulky, reinforced costume against Steve almost too much to take--actually painful, making Steve hiss, and Dean grins wider, grinds harder, in sharp contrast to the soft line of kisses he trails under Steve's jaw.

Steve's hands tighten around his hips, gripping hard, and he tries not to shout as he throws his head back against the pillow and comes undone.

 

When they're done with all the epic battle stuff, Dean leans against the Impala, one ankle kicked over the other, waiting for Sam to finish his heart-to-heart with Dr. Banner. They've over in a bit of shade beneath a tree, their similarly shaggy heads bent together as they inspect some piece of research Sam wanted to run past him.

Steve breaks away from the rest of the group to head over to where Dean's leaning. He's in his leather jacket, more closely-cut to him than Dean's hand-me-down, and the sun glints off both their hair.

Dean holds out a scrap of paper to him. He doesn't say anything, just tilts his head back and squints down the road.

Steve takes it. There's two phone numbers written on it. One says, CELL above it; the other says OTHER CELL.

"I've got an other, other cell," Dean says. "But I figured that might be technology overload for the gramps."

"Ha ha," Steve says dryly. "Making grandpa jokes to the guy you slept with, that's real conducive to a repeat performance."

Dean grins, his shit-eating grin, and scuffs one heel in the dirt, ducking his head. He peers up at him from beneath his eyelashes, chin to his chest. "You plannin' on one of those?"

"One of what?"

"A repeat performance."

Steve waves the scrap of paper. "That's what you gave me this for, isn't it?"

"Dick," Dean says.

"Dean," Steve retorts.

They just grin at each other for a second. Then Dean pushes forward off the car, and looks around, and gets his hands on the lapels of Steve's jacket to tug him closer.

Steve lets himself be pulled, and brings his own hands up to Dean's waist after putting the scrap of paper deep inside his pocket. His thumbs find Dean's hipbones again, through the fabric, and massage small circles into them as he looks down at Dean. Dean squirms at the touch, and Steve smiles, leans in to bump their foreheads together.

"Sap," Dean grumbles.

Steve kisses him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Inspired by [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dqytenB_wc).)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Exit Strategy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2273055) by [8sword](https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/pseuds/8sword)




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